Making Sense
by clair beaubien
Summary: Sam has gotten his soul back, and he tries to ask Dean a question. But is he making any sense?
1. Chapter 1

"Does it?" Sam asked, He looked over at Dean as they drove down the highway.

"Does what?" Dean asked.

It was then that Sam remembered that they hadn't been in the middle of a conversation. He was asking a question based on a conversation they'd had weeks ago. Actually, only a remark he'd made to Dean more than a few weeks ago. They hadn't even been talking for the past hour or so that they'd been driving down this road.

He should be sleeping. He didn't want to be sleeping, but he should probably be sleeping. Dean probably wanted him to sleep. The windows were mostly up, the radio was mostly down, the bench seat was pushed back a notch more than Dean usually liked it, so that Sam had a little more room to be comfortable. He should be sleeping.

He wasn't tired though. He should be tired. Maybe he _was _tired. He should probably be tired. He'd had his soul back forty seven hours now, but he'd only slept two normal nights of sleep; apparently, his body wasn't trying to make up for the year or more of never sleeping at all. He thought it would. But it didn't seem to be.

Okay, well, maybe not 'normal' sleep. Although, well, maybe it _was _normal sleep, normal for a Winchester: short, choppy, shot through with nightmares and panicked stillness. Yeah, that could be normal sleep. For a Winchester. So maybe –

"_Sam?_ Does what?"

Oh, right. He was talking to Dean. He'd asked him a question. Now Dean had asked a question back. Sam needed to answer that question.

"Does it still bother you?"

Actually, a doughnut would be nice right now. Chocolate frosted with cream filling. That would be good. With coffee. Black. All that sugar needed black coffee. Maybe he'd ask Dean the next town they came to if they could stop and get a doughnut. And coffee. Coffee would be good. Not that he was tired, he wasn't tired, but coffee would be good. Coffee and a doughnut would be really good. He wasn't really a doughnut person, not the way Dean was a pie person. He'd eat a doughnut if it was there, but he never craved them. This whole past year or more, he'd eaten only from hunger, never from appetite. He'd forgotten what it was like to enjoy food, to anticipate eating a favorite meal or appreciate a shot of good liquor. So, eating a doughnut would be nice. And coffee. Black coffee –

"_Sam?_ Does _what_ still bother me?"

Oh, right. He was still talking to Dean. He was still trying to ask that question. He still wasn't being clear enough. Dean didn't sound annoyed though. He only asked like he was only asking what Sam meant.

Maybe Sam shouldn't be trying to have a conversation right now. He wasn't tired - he _wasn't_ - but his brain felt heavy, and thoughts and memories and ideas were spinning around like grainy splotches in a wobbly kaleidoscope. That maybe wasn't the best frame of mind to be having a conversation or _trying_ to have a conversation or –

"_Sam_?"

Oh, right.

"Does hell still bother you?"

Or maybe he shouldn't be asking about hell. Because - you know - it was _hell._ Dean never liked talking about hell. No, Sam shouldn't have asked about hell. Knowing whether or not hell still bothered Dean wouldn't change anything, would it? If Dean even did asnswer, which he wouldn't, he was probably going to say 'no' anyway which meant really it _did_ still bother him, but even so Dean would say '_no' _and that was going to mean –

"Is my book still in the trunk?" Sam asked then, instead. He'd meant to shortcut the _'hell' _question, but he didn't even really know where this particular question came from. Dean wouldn't know what book he was talking about. _Sam_ wasn't even sure what book he was talking about, except he remembered reading a good book back, way back, back - back before - before –

"_Everything _of yours is still in the trunk." Dean said.

And that was nice, wasn't it? _Nice_ was that feeling, wasn't it? The feeling that if the book was there or if it wasn't, it was okay because for that whole year that Dean thought - _really believed_ – that Sam was dead, he hadn't thrown out any of Sam's stuff.

And so what that really meant was that anything Sam needed, or wanted, even a chocolate covered doughnut – or maybe that was too much sugar. Maybe he should eat some protein. Psychological distress was every bit as physically draining as physical distress so his body had to really be in metabolic overdrive for all he was going through so maybe he should eat some protein to compensate. Maybe the next place they stopped, the next town they came to, he'd get something protein – something like -

"Did you know that peanut butter was actually invented a thousand years B.C.E?" Was the next something he said to Dean. Which was a weird something to say. Another splotch from the wobbly kaleidoscope.

Even if he had peanut butter, he could still have the doughnut. Or maybe he could get a peanut donut. That wouldn't be as much sugar and he could get a lot of cream in his coffee. Or he could get a lot of cream anyway, even if he got the frosted doughnut. But no, black coffee would be better. Not that he was tired, because he wasn't, but -

"Are you hungry?" Dean asked, and Sam brought his attention back to the conversation. Dean had that slightly bemused, slightly incredulous smile on his face that he usually got when Sam was a little drunk or a little high on painkillers or really pissed at something that turned out later he was really wrong about. Dean looked a lot like Dad when he looked like that.

"I'm not making any sense, am I?" Sam asked, and he was surprised that he could actually form the question.

"Yeah, you are."

Dean meant it; Sam recognized the tone. They were in the car, driving, Sam was talking gibberish, and Dean was making sense of it. Which was nice.

After all that time, years, since Dean came back from hell even, all that time of not ever connecting between them, not really, and maybe not even _wanting_ to connect except maybe actually _always_ wanting to connect only not knowing that and trying hard in all the wrong ways to make it happen some other way when really the only way that was ever the way to really connect between them was always being just honest up front and not letting things go too wrong too long so maybe –

"_Yes_."

"That's what I said." Dean said. "_Yes_ - you are making sense. Exhausted-out-of-your-mind sense, maybe. But sense."

But that wasn't what Sam said. Or it wasn't what he meant. Was he referencing another conversation again? No, this one felt recent. Immediate even.

"No - y_es._"

Because Dean had asked a question and so Sam was going to answer that question. He _thought _he was answering it. Well, yeah, he _was_ answering it; he just wasn't being clear _what _he was answering. So – but – if he was making sense, if Dean was making sense out of what Sam was saying, then he'd know what Sam was answering for and Sam wouldn't – shouldn't – have to dig around his mind to remember what he was answering 'yes' to.

_What_ was he saying 'yes' to?

"'Yes' you're _hungry_?" Dean asked.

Oh, right.

"I'd like to eat something."

Sam wasn't sure that could actually be categorized entirely as 'hunger'. It had been so long since he'd enjoyed eating anything. Even before hell, really. Before _Dean's_ hell. He couldn't enjoy anything back then, knowing what was waiting at the end of that year. He'd eat, he'd sleep, he'd hunt and work, but it _hurt. _It was agony to watch the days burn away and be no closer to saving Dean. Sleep was as restful as white water rafting, alcohol was bitter, food was as good as ashes. Nothing was good because at the end of every meal, at the foot of every bed, in the bottom of every glass, there was _hell_. Dean's hell.

"_Sam_?What do you want to eat?" Dean asked. He sounded like he'd asked it once already.

"Does it?" Was what Sam answered with. Because maybe knowing the answer to that would make some difference, although Sam couldn't figure what difference it would make. Except maybe all he really wanted was Dean to be honest with him about it and _that_ would be the difference that Sam's psyche seemed intent on. Honesty, openness, truth, talking.

Maybe it was just talking he wanted, needed, and about _what_ didn't make any difference. Maybe he just wanted to hear Dean's voice. Wanted to _want_ to hear Dean's voice. Because he hadn't enjoyed that at all either all this time they'd been back together. Hadn't enjoyed Dean's company, his sarcasm, his humor, his strength.

"Can we go to a movie?" He asked then, instead. Because if what he wanted was to enjoy being with Dean – well, _hell_ didn't have a place in there, did it? So he shouldn't want Dean to answer that question, or any question, about hell. Should he? Hell shouldn't have a place with them, now.

Except it _did_, because hell was part of both of them now. Each of them separately and both of them together and a movie wasn't going to change that, but it wasn't going to make it any worse, either, was it? So, why not a movie? Why not a movie and a doughnut and some coffee and reading a good book and just sitting with his brother?

Maybe they could even sit out and look at the stars tonight because it'd be dark when they got out of the movie and Sam wasn't tired, really he _wasn't_, and even if he was he could sleep in the car, couldn't he? They could both sleep in the car if they had to because they'd done it before, lots of times, and really, the back seat could be comfortable if he found just the right way to get himself all tucked in there.

As long as he didn't put his boots on the seat and get Dean bent out of shape that he might get _dirt_ in the car. Like that was a catastrophe or something.

Maybe he could get new boots. These boots weren't too worn, but a new pair of boots would be nice. The next town they came to, he'd look for a store. A real store to buy real boots. Dad was always particular that they always get new boots, properly sized, because feet are important. If you lose your feet, even to a blister, you lose a lot that was really important. It was always good to have a spare pair of boots.

It was hard to find boots in his size though. Especially in smaller towns. And they were headed for a smaller town now if the cow field they were parked next to was any indication of what was coming up.

Parked? Why were they _parked_? Did he miss another part of the conversation?

He looked at Dean and Dean was leaning back against the driver's door, with a look on his face like he was only just waiting for Sam to catch up to what was going on. Or maybe waiting for Sam to slow down so that _he _could catch up to _Sam_.

"It doesn't all fit." Sam said. Did that make sense? Dean would make sense of that, wouldn't he?

"It doesn't _have_ to all fit, Sammy. The pieces can go wherever they need to go. I just want to keep track of a few of them."

"_I'm not tired." _

He wasn't. He _wasn't _tired. So why was Dean asking about that? Except - _was_ Dean asking about that? What was he asking?

Or if not a doughnut, maybe a bagel. Except a chocolate frosted cream doughnut sounded really good. And coffee. Black coffee. Not that he was tired -

"Yes, you _are _tired. You're exhausted. I'm just interested in what happens between now and dreamland."

"Christmas won't be on a Saturday again until the year 2021."

Okay, maybe not the most relevant thing to say in their present train of conversation. But it was true, and truth was the most important thing, wasn't it? That and taking care of your feet. Because nothing was worse than having to hike a couple of miles with a blistered foot or an ill-fitting shoe or - well, there _were _worse things than that, of course there were. But in the everyday, normal, mundane world of things that were bad and worse, a blistered foot was _worse_ and -

"You're not exhausted, you're in a talking coma." Dean said. And still he had that bemused look on his face like Sam wasn't being a _total _weirdo with all of his out-of-nowhere thoughts.

How long had it been since Dean smiled at him - at _him, _at _Sam_, not what Dean was supposed to _believe_ was Sam - like he was happy just to be there with him, like being together was the best thing and he wouldn't want to be doing anything else.

"Sleep isn't as good as I thought it would be." Sam said. Even if he was - _maybe_ - tired.

"Hey, I was there these past two nights, too. I know it's not. You still need it."

The past two nights. Sam didn't want to remember them. He'd slept, but he didn't, but he did, but all it was, really, was two nights of dozing off and slamming awake and trying to pick reality out of the shards of memories and nightmares and realizing that the hell of what was real wasn't much different from what was real about hell and good socks were just as important as the right boots and maybe a vanilla frosted doughnut with chocolate cream would be good too as long as there was coffee, black, and -

"_Sam._"

Oh, right. Dean was talking to him. Or he was talking to Dean.

"Can't I sleep in the car?" Sam asked.

"I don't know. _Can_ you?"

Oh, gee. That was one of those verbal parries that Miss Endres, one of Sam's fourth grade teachers, had employed whenever a student asked '_can I' _when they should've asked, '_may I?_'

"You know -." Sam started, but Dean cut him off.

"Sam - honestly, if whatever you're going to say _isn't_ about sleep or hunger, I don't think I'm up to it right now."

Oh, right. Sleep and hunger. That's where Dean's side of the conversation was right now. Not hell. Not peanut butter. Not - well, peanut butter was food, so that might fall under the heading 'hunger'. And really - if they went to a movie, Sam could get popcorn and that was food and for maybe ninety minutes they could forget about hell between them and then they could look at the stars and sleep in the car, both of them, because -

"You need to sleep, too." Sam said. "You were awake all of the past two nights with me."

Dean rubbed his eyes and looked away, out the windshield.

"Yeah, well, when _you _sleep, I'll sleep. That's how this works."

Pie. That was it. They needed to get pie. For Dean. And black coffee. Dean liked black coffee. Sam could pretend to sleep, he'd done it enough in the recent past, and if he pretended to sleep until Dean was asleep, then he wouldn't need to sleep and there'd be no nightmares and he could sit out on the hood and watch the stars and he could eat peanut butter doughnuts because Dean should sleep because he hadn't done anything to deserve not to sleep so they'd get pie and not talk about hell because Dean wouldn't answer anyway and even if he did, which he wouldn't, it didn't matter anyway, did it? It didn't matter that Sam's dreams of hell were nightmare's of _Dean's _hell and not his own, and pie - dammit _pie _- should be all it took to make hell fall away and leave two brothers as brothers and not the strangers they'd been growing closer to being since Sam couldn't even remember when.

"That doesn't make any sense." Sam finally answered Dean's statement.

"And knowing that Christmas won't be on a Saturday again for eleven years _does _make sense?"

_Christmas, doughnuts, coffee, pie, stars, movies, sleeping in the car, being with Dean__._

"It helps everything else make sense."

"Things will make a lot _more _sense after you've had some real sleep." Dean's tone was cajoling, He wanted Sam to sleep. "So - you sleep, I sleep. You don't sleep, I don't sleep." He looked Sam up and down once and shrugged. "You spit odd bits of trivia out at me, I listen lto you spit odd bits of trivia out at me. .."

He turned forward on the seat and started the car.

"So - peanut butter first?" Dean asked, joking but serious, and Sam knew that in a minute or less they'd be on their way down the road again, looking for somewhere to get him something to eat and he thought he had to know before then. He had to know _now._

"_Does it?" _he asked, desperate, and he made himself not even think about another question after that because knowing the answer to that question _was _important. It _was._

"Does hell still bother me?" Dean asked after a pause and a heavy sigh. He sounded tired. He didn't turn off the engine but he kept the car in park. "That's what you're asking?"

Sam nodded and ignored the wobbly blotches of doughnuts and peanut butter and Christmas calendars that were doing acrobatics in his brain.

"Why do you want to know?" Dean asked after Sam nodded. He didn't sound evasive or angry or anything but just interested in knowing the answer, and Sam kept pushing through the pain and fear, exhaustion and disorientation that his heart and mind and soul were working overtime to divert into visions of coffee and pastry.

Did it matter if the answer to the question didn't make sense, as long as it was the truth? Because it didn't make a bit of sense. But it _was _the truth.

"_If I know, I think I'll be able to sleep."_

Dean took in and let out a deep breath, and got that pinched, squinty look around his mouth and his eyes, but - to his credit, Sam thought - he didn't look away like he was maybe trying out answers. He kept his eyes straight on Sam's.

"I gotta tell you Sam - right now, _my_ hell doesn't bother me as much as _your_ hell bothers me. And it's gonna be that way for a while. You took on my hell for me, when I couldn't, and now I'm taking on yours."

Then he put the car in drive and didn't wait for or want an answer.

Pie, then, Sam thought. Pie for Dean and black coffee for both of them and a bagel with peanut butter and a chocolate frosted cream doughnut for him, and a movie and the stars and sleeping in the car because - _God_ - the thought of sleeping inside a tiny room made his skin crawl. Or - no - yeah - a motel room so Dean could sleep too because he needed to sleep. Whatever. It didn't matter. The only thing that mattered right here, right now, right at this moment was Sam sitting next to his brother and being with his brother, and his brother wanting to be sitting here next to him.

That and a doughnut and coffee - and _sleep_, Sam gave a glance to Dean - and life would be as perfect as he could remember it being in years.

Sam sighed and leaned his head against the window and looked out at the passing farmland, gray barns, and dairy herds. Just as he was about to ask, '_Did you know that the actress who played Auntie Em committed suicide when she was eighty-one?'_ he felt a big, warm, familiar hand wrap around the back of his neck. Then it was on his shoulder, then on his wrist. And for a little while at least, hell drained out of his soul and into that touch.

Maybe he'd just sleep awhile.

The End.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N 1: My apologies to everyone who I haven't thanked for a review of any of my stories, or who I need to email. I'm having computer issues.

A/N 2: I've posted an original short story to Amazon, available for sale. If you're interested, you can check out either my home page on this website , or the link to my _other _home page on this home page.

Now, on to the story.

* * *

_God, it was good to have Sammy sitting next to me again. _

"Does it?" Sam asked me, right out of the blue. Two days he'd been re-souled and it was like his brain was running to catch up, and that left him a little loopy. And really, _really_ tired.

We were driving down a back country road to a little town called – I kid you not – _Dull_, _Ohio_, and the last thing we said to each other was at least an hour or so before, some general comment on the weather. And all that was, was pretty much me saying I was glad it stopped raining, and Sam looking at me for a full fifteen seconds before nodding. But I couldn't be sure that he was agreeing to what I said, or simply acknowledging that I'd said anything at all.

"Does what?" I asked back. But I only got a puzzled look from Sam, like he didn't know what I was talking about. Then he turned back to look out the windshield, and didn't answer me.

Poor kid was exhausted out of his noggin and fighting it every single second, any way he could. Random snatches of conversation, counting fence posts, doing long division probably, just to keep his brain occupied enough to keep awake. Well, he'd crash eventually. I just had to wait him out.

_God, it was good to have Sammy sitting next to me again. _

I gave a glance over to him again. He needed a haircut. A trim, if nothing else. RoboSam had managed to keep all that hair in control, probably from sheer strength of will, but _Sammy's_ hair always seemed to have a mind of its own. Sometimes I thought he never even looked in a mirror except to shave. And maybe not even then. He always shaved though. Even impending Apocalypse never kept him from shaving every morning. But I wondered if he ever even _suspected _what his hair was doing half the time.

"_Sam?_ Does what?" I asked him again, since he didn't seem to be thinking about answering me.

He looked at me and I could see the wheels turning, trying to remember what he had been asking me.

"Does it still bother you?"

Well, that was specific. _Not_. He was talking in dead ends. Does _what_ still bother me? It's not like I had a clue. This was Sam – he could've been asking about getting turned into a vampire, or he could've been asking about that obstinate baby tooth I had to have surgically removed when I was nine. _Or _he could've been asking about anything in between. Like Angela Cronin from Senior High. _She_ was going to bother me until the day I died. _Again_.

"_Sam?_ Does _what_ still bother me?"

Then again, maybe I didn't even want to know. Then again - _again _- that could be moot, because if _Little Blinkie_ there didn't get some decent shut-eye and _soon_, and give his brain a chance to regroup, I might _never_ know what it was he wanted to know.

"_Sam_?"

I got the '_Oh, right'_ look.

_God, it was good to have Sammy sitting next to me again. _

"Does hell still bother you?"

Nope, did _not_ want to know that he wanted to know about that. I didn't even want to _think_ about it. I mean - yeah, it _did_ bother me, and no, it _didn't_ bother me, and maybe all Sam wanted to know was how long he could expect to drag his own hell along with him.

_Not long at all, if I had anything to say about it. _

"Is my book still in the trunk?" Sam asked then, instead. I didn't know if he was changing the subject or just forgot what he'd asked me. Or that he'd asked me anything at all. Next time we damn stopped, he was _so_ getting dosed with a sleepy-time pill.

"_Everything _of yours is still in the trunk." I told him. Every shirt, t-shirt, sock, shoe, book, notebook, pen, pencil, and paper clip. If he wanted it, I could have it in my hand in five seconds. But Sam went off to that _other_ place again, thinking about _something, _only who knew what that _something_ was. Maybe not even Sam.

I gave him another look. He needed some new clothes, too. I didn't want him to have to wear any of RoboSam's clothes, that just didn't feel right. So, we'd get him some new clothes. He'd like that. At _any_ age, Sam always got a thrill out of actual brand new clothes, probably because we got them so rarely. So, as soon as I could, I'd hunt up the _'big & tall'_ store nearest to Dull, OH, and buy him some new jeans, and shirts long enough that he could actually tuck them in, and anything else that looked like he could use it.

Of course, Sam always seemed to get a _bigger_ thrill when I'd hand him down whatever didn't fit me anymore, like that stretched out sweatshirt that was too big for him that he used as a pajama top for two winters, or all those flannel shirts worn soft, that hung almost to his knees, with sleeves so long they had to be rolled up practically halfway just to get to his wrists. And any time anybody asked him why he was wearing a shirt that was just so big on him, his only answer was a proud, '_Dean gave it to me.'_

_God, it was good to have Sammy sitting next to me again. _

"Did you know that peanut butter was actually invented a thousand years B.C.?"

Sam's question brought me out of wishing he was still at an age that I could hand him down things and make him ridiculously happy doing it.

So, peanut butter, hunh? He'd been spending that time thinking about _food?_

_Good_.

"Are you hungry?" I asked. Leave it to Sam to _not_ realize he might be hungry, and to have it come out as another bit of fascinating trivia.

"I'm not making any sense, am I?" He asked. _Apologized_. Like he _had _to apologize.

_God, it was good to have Sammy sitting next to me again. _

"Yeah, you are." I told him. _Maybe not to yourself, but to me - Sammy, you are a book I know by heart._

I didn't know if he understood my answer. He went back to the _other place_ for a little while.

Okay, so – food, then a place to crash, and the chemical means to accomplish the crashing. Although, if I could get enough food into Sam, he'd crash all on his own. He'd always been that way. A big meal, a warm car, music turned down just enough, and it was '_goodnight Sammy.'_ Even if it was only two in the afternoon.

RoboSam never slept, never napped, never – he just never had any 'down' time. Pretty much all one note, except for the few times he could be pushed to anger. No humor, no wit, no extravagance, no annoyance, no nothing. It's hard traveling with a guy who's a flat line most of the time.

_God, it was good to have Sammy sitting next to me again. _

"Yes." Sam followed the revolving door out of _the other place_ again.

"That's what I said." I said. "_Yes. You are making sense_. Exhausted-out-of-your-mind sense, maybe. But sense."

Well, that perplexed him, if the wrinkle between his eyebrows was anything to go by. So, that was _not_ what he'd been referring to?

"No - _yes_." He said it like I'd understand immediately what he was referring to. I did a fast backtrack of our conversation.

"'_Yes' _you're hungry?"

"_I'd like to eat something." _

He said it like he wasn't sure that answer meant he was hungry, but that he recognized that I'd asked him if he _was_ hungry and he wanted to answer the question I asked, but he didn't want to lie. Even by semantics.

What a geek.

A giant-sized, over-tired, precise-to-a-fault, sweet, lovable, geek.

_God, it was good to have Sammy sitting next to me again. _

"What would you like to eat?"

Salad, probably. Some fiber-licious, ultra-organic, non-processed, nearly-vegetarian health food. And frou-frou coffee. Whatever it was, it didn't matter. If Sammy wanted it, I'd make sure he got it.

If only he'd _tell _me what he wanted.

"Sam? What do you want to eat?"

"Does it?"

He asked that back so fast it was like he got flung out of that revolving door. Leave it to Sammy to find his way through the maze of his own mind back to _that_ question. I could put him off all day and night, change the subject every five seconds, speak in a foreign language, and turn the music up to a thousand decibels - Sam would _always_ find his way back to any question he hadn't gotten a satisfactory answer to.

So - what was I supposed to tell him? That sometimes I still dream of my hell? But I a_lways _dream of _his_ hell?

And how was I supposed to tell him anything if I couldn't keep his attention longer than three seconds at a time? He wasn't the only one here who was exhausted.

I pulled over to the side of the road, near a fenced field that was home to a herd of cows. Maybe if I didn't give him changing scenery to constantly fixate on, maybe if I could get his brain to stop thinking it had to keep running, maybe he'd fixate on _me _long enough to end this conversation.

So I stopped driving. And I waited.

And then I waited some more.

All his life, Sam has had the sometimes incredible, sometimes annoying, ability to laser focus on something, on _anything_, that caught his interest. Wringing out every last bit of information about it, even if that involved wringing it out of actual living human beings. Talking, asking, taking mental notes on mental note cards, shuffling those cards into the right order and filling in all the blanks he found, writing mental guidebooks to the subject.

And then, _he'd tell me all about it_.

RoboSam never really talked. He _spoke_, but he never really _talked_. He already had everything figured out. For Sam though, talking was always part of the way he got everything in line. It was a way to smooth out the rough corners of niggling facts that hadn't quite fit to his liking, reshuffling those note cards until he had them all in razor straight perfect order.

There'd been times when he'd be talking so single-mindedly while we were driving somewhere, that we'd get there and he'd ask, '_We're here already_?', even if it'd been a ten hour drive.

After five or ten minutes of admiring the cows that were admiring us at the moment, I finally got that '_where is this place and what are we doing here' _look from Sam.

_God, it was good to have Sammy sitting next to me again. _

"Can we go to a movie?" He asked.

I gotta tell you, the thought of going to a movie, of doing something _normal_ with my brother, was a dream I'd had for a _very _long time.

_Sammy, I would __**love**__ to go to a movie with you. I'd love to do anything with you. Just as soon as your brain stops hiccupping. _

I didn't say that though. I didn't say anything. I knew that revolving door was still revolving, and from the look on Sam's face it seemed to be heading towards reality. We might just get this conversation resolved after all, if I didn't risk it all by actually saying something to him.

"It doesn't all fit." Sam said then. A short but beautifully coherent statement.

"It doesn't have to all fit, Sammy. The pieces can go wherever they need to go. I just want to keep track of a few of them."

_"I'm not tired." _

Boy, did I know that tone of voice. '_Dean - why do I have to go to bed? I don't want to go to bed. I can't go to bed. I have homework, I have to study, there's a movie on, it's not a school night, Dad's not home yet…' _He had at least three arguments for every one thing he didn't want to do. He was a born lawyer.

_God, it was good to have him sitting next to me again. _

"Yes, you are tired. You're exhausted. I'm just interested in what happens between now and dreamland."

_Like keeping you well-rested and well-fed, and on only one topic of conversation for ten minutes at a time. _

"Christmas won't be on a Saturday again until the year 2021."

_Fun fact number 231, 683. _And the thing is, Sam always presented these fun facts and general trivia like he was the _last _person to have figured it out, and everybody else already knew.

"You're not exhausted, you're in a talking coma." I told him. We _so _had to find a way to get him on Jeopardy. Show the world just how smart my little brother is.

"Sleep isn't as good as I thought it would be." Sam said. I loved complete, coherent sentences.

But yeah, that was it, wasn't it? With nightmares on the attack, and agonizing memories on the prowl, sleep was a scary, dangerous place to be. These past two nights, since Sam got his soul back, whenever he did fall asleep, it was only long enough to start dreaming, and then he'd jump awake and search the room with his eyes, until he saw me, and then after awhile, he'd start to relax.

Just enough to fall asleep just long enough to start dreaming again.

"Hey, I was there these past two nights, too." I told Sam. "I know it's not. You still need it."

We _both_ needed it. I'd stay awake as much and as long and as often as Sam needed me to be, but I _so_ wanted to be inside a nice, quiet room, in nice, warm beds, _asleep_.

"So, c'mon, Sam. We'll get back on the road, we'll find you some peanut butter and we'll get a room and try sleeping again. Even if it's only in little bits at a time, it's better than nothing.

But Sam had gone off, _again_, and wasn't listening to me.

_"Sam." _

"Can't I sleep in the car?" He asked me. Like - _what_? I'd been _stopping _him?

"I don't know. _Can you_?"

I guess he didn't get the subtle verbal irony, because he started in again with what was probably another fun fact.

_"You know -." _

I cut him off. I had to. I wasn't sure _my _brain could take any more.

"Sam - honestly, if whatever you're going to say isn't about sleep or hunger, I don't think I'm up to it right now."

He puzzled that one for a minute or so. All those fun facts coming to a screeching halt probably. Concussing him from inside.

"You need to sleep, too, Dean. You were awake all of the past two nights with me."

An actual coherent statement, appropriate to the moment. Maybe Sam was getting so tired that logic was finally able to catch up to his brain.

"Yeah, well, when you sleep, I'll sleep. That's how this works."

And by 'sleep', I meant Sam laid out in full, sound, uninterrupted sleep. Because I was not going to leave him, even in sleep, to face his literal demons alone.

"That doesn't make any sense." He told me.

_Um - excuse me? __**I'm**__ not making sense? There's a pot and there's a kettle, and there's the color black._

"And knowing that Christmas won't be on a Saturday again for eleven years _does _make sense?"

He heaved a sigh so deep, I thought he was going to drain all the air out of the car.

"It helps everything _else _make sense."

Yeah, I could see that. In Sammy-land, a thought expressed was a thought catalogued and stored away in its proper place. And the more thoughts that were put away, the more opportunity there was to get every other thought put away, too.

"Things will make a lot more sense after you've had some real sleep." I told him. Maybe things would make more sense to _both _of us. "So - you sleep, I sleep. You don't sleep, I don't sleep. You spit odd bits of trivia out at me, I _listen _to you spit odd bits of trivia out at me."

Just like always. I never thought I could miss it as much as I had.

_God, it was good to have Sammy sitting next to me again. _

I started the car and scanned the distance for any signs of grocery stores.

"So - peanut butter first?"

_"Does it?" _Sam asked, before I even took the car out of drive. It was more than just his usual compulsion to know everything that he _wanted _to know. This, he _needed_ to know.

"Does hell still bother me? That's what you're asking?" I asked him, just to be clear. As clear as we could be between us, with both of us exhausted beyond imagining.

Sam nodded. So far, so good. But - just to be really, _really _clear -

"Why do you want to know?"

I really expected Sam to go back into that revolving door of trivia, where his thoughts dragged him out of the stream of reality and into that _other place. _But he kept his eyes on mine. And he kept his thoughts in a straight line.

_"If I know, I think I'll be able to sleep." _

Which meant that I had to tell him. I had to tell him _the truth. _And the truth was what the truth had _always _been - I'd suffer anything, as long as I knew that Sam was okay.

_God, it was good to have him sitting next to me again. _

"The hell that bothers me, Sam, is _your_ hell. And that's how it gonna be. You faced down my hell for me, when I couldn't. So I'm facing down yours."

I didn't wait for that thought to traverse the revolving door of Sam's brain. I got us back on the road and headed for the next town, the next motel and the next try at sleeping.

Sam looked at me for awhile, but I didn't look back at him. When he said whatever he said next, I'd know where his brain was. Until then, anything I said probably wouldn't register with him. So, let him wander around in his own thoughts for awhile. Hopefully he'd be thinking of food and sleep, and _more _sleep. Because, God knew, I could use some sleep too.

And maybe he _was _thinking of sleep, finally, because he sighed and leaned his head against his window. That was always a harbinger of Sammy-sleep. RoboSam never slept in the car. He never slept _anywhere_, I know, but he never even relaxed in the car. The car wasn't home to him, it wasn't familiar or friendly or a welcome sight for him. It was just a way to get from one place to another.

Sammy though, Sammy and me both, if we couldn't sleep anywhere, we could always sleep in the car. There probably wasn't anything we hadn't done in this car, including surgery. But sleep was the one thing that meant everything else was all right, everything else was good. And it'd been a damn long time since anything in our lives was good.

Next to me, Sam sighed again, and shifted in the seat, making himself more comfortable. It was a sound and a movement I'd known my whole life.

_God, it was good to have Sammy sitting next to me again. _

I reached over and put my hand on the back of Sam's neck, then let it slide down to give his arm a squeeze.

_Good_? Having Sammy back, my life was damn near _perfect_.

The End.


End file.
